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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075452">Perfectly Presentable</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia'>FadedSepia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Clint Barton Bingo Lines [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Baking, Birthday, Domestic Fluff, M/M, birthday fail, cake fail, he tried his best, surprise fail</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:15:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,755</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075452</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Either the recipe is wrong – unlikely – or Clint Barton has just fucked up something that should have been easy – highly likely – and he’s not sure whether to curse or cry.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Clint just wanted to make a cake.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clint Barton/Matt Murdock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Clint Barton Bingo Lines [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311593</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Clint Barton Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Cake (Fail)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was not meant to be a <i>direct</i> sequel to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21398269"><strong>Pilled and Pilfered</strong></a>, but it kind of is.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>Clint Barton Bingo Birthday Bash: </strong>Cake (2)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> ➽ • ↁ • ➽ • ↁ</b>
</p><p>Clint Barton surveys the supplies laid across his boyfriend’s kitchen counter with a sigh, wiping hands on the apron he’s now realizing is pretty much essential for this little project of his. There’s already a fine coating of flour across Matt’s black granite countertop, and a matching smear on Clint’s t-shirt.</p><p>This isn’t exactly his forte, and even thinking that he could master it seems pretentious. <em>Forte?</em> Fuck. This isn’t in Clint’s wheelhouse, isn’t even within sight of the slip where his half-busted boat is moored. And this was supposed to be the easy part, as opposed to sourcing fresh cherries in April. He looks down at the zoomed in photo of the recipe card, lettered out in May Parker’s tiny, precise cursive, and sighs to himself. The kid said the recipe was <em>easy,</em> but he says the same thing about all of their stupidly upgraded tech, and just-!</p><p><em>No.</em> This <em>cannot</em> be that hard. Really. It’s a cake for shit’s sake; it’s not explosive – well, no, <em>technically,</em> he could <em>make</em> parts of it explosive, but it’s not <em>meant</em> to explode – any schmuck off the street should be able to do it. Clint only needs to follow the steps and get it done, like any other assignment. Plus, stopping at this point would be such a waste of effort. He’s already squandered thirty minutes watching videos on how the hell anyone is supposed to <em>cut-in</em> the butter – the first <em>cutting</em> he has <em>ever</em> heard of that has to be done <em>without</em> using any sort of <em>blade</em> – so stopping now would be admitting defeat. Not to mention that Clint bought sour cream <em>and</em> mayonnaise for this recipe, on top of the good vanilla extract that costs more per ounce than he even wants to consider.</p><p>He might be deeply questioning his life choices, but Clint still reaches for the mayonnaise and another mixing bowl. Adding the sour cream makes for a consistency he’s only ever seen with coleslaw dressing, but at least the spoonful of vanilla makes the whole thing smell good. Clint grabs yet another fork, hoping that his stirring isn’t too close to whisking<em>,</em> and seriously wondering why there are things called <em>stirrers</em> and <em>whisks</em> when – <em>apparently</em> – you can just use a goddamn fork for everything, at least until you run out of clean forks. <em>One each for the eggs, the dry ingredients, one for this, two for the cutting.</em> Matt only has five; Clint’s going to have to wash every fork in the apartment if the recipe calls for another one.</p><p>Clint side-eyes the picture still open on his phone.</p><p>
  <em>Beat to stiff peaks with electric mixer or whisk; test peaks with clean fork.</em>
</p><p><em>Fuck.</em> He can think about that later. Right now, it’s starting to look like he might have done something wrong. The batter- or, wait… It is dough? Regardless, the flour and sugar and sour cream and fucking <em>mayonnaise</em> goop looks <em>nothing</em> like the picture that Peter texted him. Now is not the time to contemplate whether or not he’s been trolled, though. He’s on a timetable, and a limited one that is not at all conducive to either <em>forking stiff peaks</em> or waiting for twelve individual cakes to cool for <em>two fucking hours.</em> The recipe was for short<em>cake</em> not short<em>cakes;</em> he only needs to make one.</p><p>Also Matt doesn’t seem to have a muffin tin.</p><p>But – maybe? – it will work out alright. It’s not rocket science; it’s just math, and the math of it should be easy. If cakes are anything like hamburgers, then tiny cakes would cook more quickly, right? So that means that Clint’s single big cake would need more time to cook. But, by the same logic, he can cook that single cake in <em>less</em> time if he just increases the heat. The less time he spends baking it, the more time it will have to cool; simple cause-and-effect. Not to mention that the higher heat should dry out the overly runny batter – <em>Let’s stick with batter</em> – possibly saving Clint from his own incompetence.</p><p>The oven isn’t the old one Clint’s used to back at his place, but that shouldn’t be a problem; he only has to figure out how to set it to two-hundred thirty degrees. Clint decides to set it to three-hundred. That should shave a few minutes off the time, which ought to get him in under the wire, but only just.</p><p>Clint slides the cake into the middle rack on the oven – definitely <em>not still trying</em> to figure out which is the <em>middle</em> rack when there are <em>four</em> rack heights – and closes the door. He’s got to make the cream, and then he still has to start on the cherry compote.</p><p>
  <b> ➽ • ↁ • ➽ • ↁ</b>
</p><p>Cherries and boiling sugar make for a very effective anti-personnel ordinance. Beyond the burn, the way it tightens up and pulls when it cools makes it an annoyance long after the initial sharp pain. But <em>that</em> is one less thing on his list now, and, honestly, once the redness goes down, this new burn scar on his hand will barely be noticeable. Clint spoons the still warm compote into a storage container and takes a moment to survey his progress while he licks the spoon clean.</p><p>The cherries are now next to the cream, which never <em>did</em> peak the way all the videos online showed it would, but it sticks upside down on the spoon, so that’ll just have to be good enough. The warm fruit and sugar tastes pretty damn good, too, so there is that. Now he just needs to check the cake. Clint reaches into the drying rack and heads for the oven, only to open the door and be met with disappointment shortly after because <em>this</em> cake-!</p><p>This <em>fucking</em> cake… has been baking… for <em>thirty minutes!</em> And it is still half raw, something that Clint has just tested – as per the instructions – with yet another forking fuck!</p><p>
  <em>Damnit.</em>
</p><p>Well, no; he tested it with one of the <em>same</em> five forks he’s been using, but washed and dried; <em>clean,</em> at least before he stuck it into the still gloopy slurry of flour and sugar and – <em>Damnit!</em> – he still cannot believe there is <em>mayonnaise</em> in there, which is part of why he’s on the phone right now. Because either the recipe is wrong – unlikely – or Clint Barton has just fucked up something that <em>should</em> have been easy – <em>highly</em> likely – and he can’t think of anyone else to ask. He’s not sure whether to curse or cry when Peter answers, but he’s awfully glad the kid can’t see him on the verge of rage-filled tears. “The recipe you gave me? It’s been thirty-five minutes and it’s still raw.”</p><p>“<em>Um… is the oven on?”</em></p><p>Clint is <em>not</em> going to scream; he’s an Avenger – he’s an <em>adult</em> – and he is not going to yell. Or cry. “Yes, it is on. Set to three-hundred.”</p><p>There’s a sharp inhalation on the other end of the line; the kid sounds aghast as he asks, “<em>And you’re sure the oven is on? Because it ought to be halfway to charcoal if it’s been in at three-hundred for half an hour.”</em></p><p>“Well, it’s not, so what’s wrong with it?”</p><p>“<em>You used the right number of eggs?”</em></p><p>“Two.” The shells are right there on top of the waste bin, and Clint only just washed <em>that</em> fork.</p><p>“<em>And you set the oven to three hundred C?”</em></p><p>“Of course, I-” <em>Three hundred, </em>“What?”</p><p>“<em>C.”</em> Peter Parker’s chipper voice echoes in the hollow cavern that has temporarily replaced Clint’s brain. “<em>Celsius or um… centigrade, I think it used to be called back… in the day?”</em></p><p>Clint closes his eyes. He takes a single long breath. <em>In. Out.</em> He can guarantee his voice will sound even – if not <em>pleasant</em> – when he asks, “It’s in <em>metric</em> degrees?”</p><p>“<em>Um… I mean, yeah? They’re pretty much universal, and – well – May and I are used to it, but it’s not actually her recipe, it’s Mr.Wilson’s and-”</em></p><p>Of course, Clint <em>would</em> wind up trying to bake a cake based on a recipe concocted by a man with only half a brain on a <em>good day.</em> Peter is still sputtering apologetically from the phone’s speaker</p><p>“<em>If- If you can give me the time and temperature, I can try to figure out how-”</em></p><p>“What’s it in Fahrenheit?” Clint snaps, just about ready to snatch the cake pan from the oven and fling it right in with the eggshells.</p><p>“<em>Uh, what?”</em></p><p>He <em>literally</em> does not have time for this. “What’s two-thirty C in fucking <em>Fahrenheit,</em> Parker?!”</p><p>“<em>Uh- It’s, um… Four- Four-forty-six? So maybe-”</em></p><p>“Four-fifty, great, bye.” Clint slams the phone down, cranks the oven to four-seventy-five, snatches up the bottom corner of his apron to press against his face as he bellows his anger into the cotton. It’s only when Clint drops the apron that he realizes the section he screamed into is covered in flour and sticky with cherry juice.</p><p>“Aww, fuck, cherries, no…”</p><p>
  <b> ➽ • ↁ • ➽ • ↁ</b>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Surprise (Win)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>Clint Barton Bingo Birthday Bash: </strong>Surprise (6)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> ➽ • ↁ • ➽ • ↁ</b>
</p><p>Clint Barton would hardly call himself stoic; no matter that he <em>can</em> be, it’s rarely his intention to keep his emotions in check when he doesn’t have to. This afternoon, however, the only thing keeping them from erupting is a desire not to trash his boyfriend’s kitchen because, otherwise, he would already have thrown the entirety of this monstrous endeavour – shortcake, toppings, pans, <em>forks!</em> – every damn bit slammed straight into the wall. He might have failed at this, but, even at his worst, Clint knows he’d have no trouble hitting those marks. Just like he knows that crying over the ruin that is his boyfriend’s birthday cake isn’t going to do <em>anything</em> to address the situation.</p><p>Instead, Clint cuts away the last burnt chunk from the edge of the mangled cake, doing his best to keep the whole thing as round<em>ish</em> as he can. Sitting on the footed cake plate he honestly can’t remember digging out of Matt’s cupboard, it looks more like a mounded collection of crumbs than the lovely little cake he’d hope to end up with. Clint can take comfort in knowing that – from a few tentative nibbles at the least burnt of the bits he’s removed – it does in fact taste like cake, even if it <em>is</em> fuck-ugly. <em>For now.</em> Surely, he can do some sort of last-minute dessert triage; it’s only sixteen-seventy-five, so-</p><p>That- That’s zero-four-seven-five.</p><p>That’s not a <em>time.</em></p><p>That’s a <em>temperature.</em></p><p>The clock on the oven is at the back of the range, and it’s eighteen-oh-six. Which means Clint has negative minutes to fix <em>anything</em> because Matthew Murdock should have been walking through that door twenty minutes ago; so, either his boyfriend is doing something for his <em>night job</em> on his birthday, or… Clint sighs into his hand, “You don’t have to wait in the hallway, Matty.”</p><p>For a blissful few seconds, Clint can hope that he’s wrong, but then the latch and deadbolt turn, and the door swings open. Matt sets his briefcase by the umbrella bucket as he locks the door behind him, draping his blazer over the arm of the sofa as he steps closer. “You sounded upset, and nothing smelled too burnt, so…”</p><p>His boyfriend smiles up at him with a shrug, somehow managing to make the failure sting that much more. “So you’ve been sitting on the stairs for half an hour?”</p><p>“They’re not uncomfortable.” Matt’s in the kitchen and resting a hand on the counter before Clint can stop him. Clint watches him grimace as he snatches it back; Matt ends up wiping a streak of flour right down the leg of his charcoal slacks as he speaks, “It smells good.”</p><p>“Great, ‘cause it <em>looks</em> like shit.”</p><p>“Because I’m judging on looks.” Huffing, Matt tilts his head with a little shake. “<em>Someone</em> went to the trouble of making me a cherry cake for my birthday; I’m not going to complain, no matter how fugly it is.”</p><p>“Trust me; calling it fugly is a kindness.” Clint wipes his palms on an un-dirtied spot of apron, giving the cake plate a little turn “I’m also pretty sure there’s no way to serve it, not layered up like a real shortcake.”</p><p>“May I?”</p><p>With a nod, Clint pushes the plate further down the counter, so that Matt only has to turn a bit to reach it. He watches long-fingered hands pick their way across the absolute disaster that was – in theory – supposed to be a nice birthday surprise.</p><p>Matt nods slowly, popping a chunk of cake into his mouth before turning back to Clint with a sheepish smile. “It’s, um… a <em>unique</em> presentation.”</p><p>“It’s garbage, Matt.”</p><p>“The taste is fine, though. Texture is a little <em>unusual,</em> but hang on.” Matt’s peck against his cheek lands just above the syrup-sticky smear at the edge of Clint’s jaw. His boyfriend bends, reaching into one of the lower cabinets, far enough that Clint gets distracted by view, gone fleetingly as Matt stands, footed glass bowl in hand. “Here. Is there whipped cream, too?”</p><p>“Yeah, uh…” Clint scoots around him to the refrigerator, retrieving the compote and whipped cream, then returning to stand at Matt’s side. “Got ‘em both.”</p><p>“Great. Grab some spoons and give me a second?” Matt steps away just long enough to wash his hands, then rejoins Clint at the counter. As he watches, Matt reaches a hand into the middle of the shortcake lump, grabbing a chunk and crumbling it between his hands over the glass bowl. “Help me break up the cake? More, I mean.”</p><p>The cake is already a crumbling mess, and Clint internally winces at having to destroy it further, but Matt seems to know what he’s doing – certainly seems more confident in his actions than Clint’s felt all damn day – so why not try it? He does as he asked – crumbling the cake, passing Matt the whipped cream and cherries in turn, breaking up more tiny pieces of cake – watching as Matt layers them all within that oddly deep glass container.</p><p>Matt spoons the last of the cream onto the top, the back of the spoon leaving disgustingly <i>perfect</i> stiff peaks behind. Clint feels himself grinding his teeth by the time his boyfriend steps back, voice triumphant as he announces, “There!”</p><p>“It’s pretty, but it’s still not really a cake, Matty.”</p><p>“Exactly; now it’s a <em>trifle.”</em></p><p>His boyfriend’s just turned Clint’s disaster of a cake into a <em>trifle,</em> and – even if he assumes that must be the name for a dessert like this – Clint can’t help how right he is; all of that work turned into something small, wasteful and unimportant. “Oh, like me.”</p><p>“Don’t.” Matt rounds on him, jaw set, but Clint’s not having anyone apologizing for him today.</p><p>"I fucked up so badly that you had to make your own birthday cake-” Matt straightens to his full height, mouth open to interrupt him. “- for the second year in a row.”</p><p>His boyfriend deflates into a tiny shrug as he sidles closer. “I don’t <em>mind.”</em></p><p>“I do.”</p><p>“You tried.” Matt nudges Clint’s side with his elbow, leaning in once he lifts his arm.</p><p>“Yeah, and failed.” <em>Catastrophically,</em> and the only reason Matt isn’t losing his shit is because he’s him; Clint has to believe anyone else would have laid into him the minute they saw the wreck he’d made of their kitchen.</p><p>As it is, Matt’s snuggling closer, arm looping behind Clint’s back. “It’s sweet.”</p><p>“That’s the sugar.”</p><p>“Fuck, Clint, I mean the gesture and- You. <em>You</em> are sweet.” Head tilted onto his shoulder, Matt offers a soft smile, one that quickly slides toward teasing. “And not just from the sugar, but maybe I could help with that, too.”</p><p>“Matty.” First the cake, now the mess; Clint can’t kick himself enough for fouling things up so badly, can’t help feeling terrible that Matt seems so nonchalant about fixing all of it. “You shouldn’t have to-”</p><p>“It’s my birthday.” A firm kiss is planted on his cheek. “Maybe I want to?”</p><p>“Clean the kitchen?”</p><p>“Oh, no; <em>you</em> get to clean the kitchen.” The hand that isn’t at Clint’s waist lifts, his boyfriend’s fingers tracing up his neck to grasp his chin; holding Clint still as he tips his own face upwards. “<em>I</em> get to clean <em>you."</em></p><p>“Umm…”</p><p>“I managed to salvage that shortcake.” Matt’s tongue drags along the smear of compote on his jaw, continuing on to flick at the edge of Clint’s ear as he breathes, “I’m <em>sure</em> I could get you a little more… <em>presentable.”</em></p><p>
  <b> ➽ • ↁ • ➽ • ↁ</b>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For those of you that feel you’ve been left hanging, I’m not sorry to say:<br/>You’ve been <em>cake</em>-blocked.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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